First, forget fellatio. The word, that is, forget the word fellatio. I never liked it. Sounds yuck. Not to mention a fancy “mouthful” (teehee) of a word — clinical, not sexy. From the Latin, it means I would be called a fellatrix, a woman who practices fellatio.

From Middle English, the word “suck” sounds simpler, stronger, more fun. And it rhymes with “fuck.”

But enough of these linguistic abstractions. It’s the story — with lots of juicy details — that’s important. The story of what happened earlier today that made me start this little essay…this feuilleton on fellatio.

Outside is cold, cold, as my gray-leggings-and-red-bra-clad body snuggles in a huge white, fluffy down comforter. I cradle my laptop, its screen flickering from the fireplace in front of the snuggly sofa where I’m ensconced. Also contributing to the cozy atmospherics: an afterglow of the sweet scent of semen. It’s what remains of what just happened. That — and a memory I’ll now try to put into words while my boyfriend is taking a hot shower, getting dressed, then going out to a business meeting that has nothing to do with me.

Just a few minutes ago we were snuggling together, too— and giggling, burrowed beneath the comforter. You can call it hygge, that Scandinavian word of the moment connoting “cozy and safe.” It’s a mood, a psychological state. Whatever it’s called, my head felt instinctively drawn to the warmth of his penis, whose stiffening my leggings and his corduroys failed to disguise.

Without thinking, I bent down and unzipped him. It seemed so natural. Indeed, the moment — nature itself! — required it. So, so different from other times I had given head; then it was as if the guys themselves had required it. To suck cock, to give a blow job: it was performance art, about which I imagined myself being graded (“Make me cum, baby!”). Sometimes they would grab my hair, force themselves deep down my throat, and make me gag.

But now he didn’t have to ask me. I surprised him. It was something I felt a spontaneous and overwhelming urge to do.

When I first slipped him into my mouth, he was certainly stiff but not yet rock-hard. With my lips tight against his shaft, I didn’t move. I just luxuriated in the foreign yet strangely pleasant sensations of feeling him quickly expand against my tongue and throat. Only then did I begin to move my head, ever so slowly, in gentle, circular motions so that my lips glided around the penis nestled in my mouth.

I’ve done a lot of yoga, but all those meditative movements and breathing have never brought me to such a state of perfect quietude and liberation. “Non-self emptiness and highest happiness,” I’ve heard it called.

Time itself seemed to stop. During sexual intercourse, on the other hand, I’m always aware — at least dimly so — of progression toward a climax…and becoming frustrated if that endpoint isn’t reached. You remain a captive of linear time, and its corollary of hurtful and harmful history.

But now was like a stillpoint. Nothing existed — not even the horror of Trump as President — beyond the sensation of my boyfriend’s cock snuggly in my mouth. Being a baby again with a pacifier is an obvious analogy perhaps. All I know and can now report is that I wasn’t conscious of anything except the pure pleasure of security and contentment.

Is this what is meant by tantric sex? The purpose of which extends beyond procreation as a means to spiritual fulfillment — breaking down and making obsolete all physical boundaries and societal taboos. Swallowing his penis, I am become him. And he, me. And something I never thought I’d dare say:

I find myself wishing I could wear forever the pearl necklace he gave me.

Mindfulness: a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique.

How embarrassing! Has this ever happened to you?

This morning I had an orgasm in my yoga class. Well, almost. Right on the edge. Oh, my God! Yes.

In my new Lululemon Wonder Under or whatever it’s called, my mind was everywhere but where it should be: The here and now of my early morning yoga class. Instead, it danced from one fleeting thought to another, until settling on the feeling of the fabric that was hugging me tight.

Oh so tight!

Engineered Sensations, in “an unprecedented partnership between science and art,” is what Lululemon calls them:

Relaxed.

Naked.

Held-in.

Hugged.

Tight.

Silently I said the words. Intently I felt the sensations they conveyed. It was all I could do to keep my fingers from exploring between my legs. My imagination would have to do. That, and the four-way stretch fabric’s held-in tightness and snugness — as I moved through the various asanas — hugging me and rubbing me where my fingers, or a dildo, or a hard cock could well be.

Was my libido brainwashed by the brand? Who cares….

Namaste.

—

NOTE: For other aspects of this mind-wandering experience, please see my Medium reflections:

Some people ask, “What would Jesus do?” On this June 16th, I find myself asking:

“What would Molly Bloom wear?”

Yes, she would; yes, she would dare — and not be afraid to admit it — yes, yes, of course, she would dare to wear yoga pants, or their street-style, skintight leggings equivalent. Out and about for all the world to see, inviting (but not caring about) lewd stares and silly comments and all the endless jokes at the expense of yoga pants, thigh gaps, and camel toes.

It’s in their nature slapping us behind like that on my bottom… I suppose because its because my bottom is so plump and tempting in my tightness he couldn’t resist the excitement and I excite myself sometimes it’s well for men all the amount of pleasure they get off a woman’s body were so round and soft for them always I wished I was one myself for a change just to try with that thing they have swelling up on you so hard and at the same time so soft when you touch it….

Even long dead in the grave, Molly’s creator still pulses with life. So he won’t mind that for my solemn pilgrimage to his graveside I’m dressed so as to awaken him, make him hard again, letch and genius that he, James Joyce, undoubtedly was. If anyone can, I can raise him from the dead, as my hips lead my legs the mile or so in a pilgrimage up the gentle slope to the bucolic graveyard outside Zurich.

….in this vale of tears God knows it’s not much doesn’t everybody only they hide it I suppose that’s what a woman is supposed to be there for or He wouldn’t have made us the way He did so attractive to men then if he wants to kiss my bottom…

…and how he kissed me and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Here in Megève– French Alps haunt of Russian oligarchs and émigrés — the talk is all of Boris Nemtsov, the murdered Putin-opposition leader. It’s a scary time, all agree, back in Russia, not to mention the Ukraine. And don’t forget ISIS and the Mideast. Whither the world, I want to go elsewhere.

To escape the talk and the fear, you should go cross-country skiing, I tell myself. Alone, all alone, it’s better that way. I won’t have to worry about anybody else, much less the worrisome world. It’s only about me, not only my mind but also what’s best for my body.

Especially for an unpracticed body like mine, most at home in pencil skirts and heels, X-country seems so much safer than downhill, yet more intensely calorie-burning than walking, or even jogging.

It’s also so, so, so sensual. Let me try to describe what I mean:

First, I never wear gloves, only mittens. That way my fingers stay warm cuddling one another.

As for my toes and feet, they’re not stiffly imprisoned as they would be with downhill bindings. Rather, the special X-country shoes are more like a sexy corset. First, you lace them; then over the tied laces, there’s a zipper that you pull ever so gently from the toes to the ankle. Finally, where the talus meets the tibia and fibula, a stiff strap is snapped. It’s as if the designer of these shoes – Madshus of Norway — has a foot fetish.

Once you hook your shoes to the skis – long and skinny (just like my favorite jeans) – and the skis then slip and slide across the snow, you become one with the terrain. Gliding, you never leave the earth, as you would when walking, one foot lifting after the other into the insubstantial air.

Should there be any doubt about your oneness with the natural landscape, the ski poles, attached to your mitten-clad palms, ground you like lightning rods.

Alone in the snow-draped woods, all is silent except labored breathing as your heart rate quickens.

Thirty minutes into your pilgrimage, you face a choice: turn back and return on the trail you’ve already traveled, or keep going in the expectation that the trail is a loop. You keep going, for nature is not linear.

Leaving the forest behind, in the open meadows, you feel the stiff wind for the first time. The chill cuts through your loosely fitted, “soft-shell” ski pants so sharply that your skin suddenly becomes aware of the merino wool tights that you’ve base-layered underneath. The sensation is so odd, for normally you seldom feel or otherwise notice hose or tights (they so quickly become your body’s second skin).

But now it’s as if that second skin strangely belongs to the skin of another, the seductive yet cold, harsh hands of which massage and fondle your baby-soft inner thighs.

Full-circle, home again, a 60-minute woman, you look and feel gloriously spent, indeed ravished. All eyes turn toward you as you enter the chalet; the end-of-the-world chatter is momentarily hushed, so your friends can turn to regard your telltale flushed checks and sleepy eyes as if from a clandestine tryst. Yes, you must confess, the winter woods and snowy fields have been your secret lover…and, oh, what a lover they’ve been!

Who cares about my Commando thong? What I really want to know: Do you like my hair?

POU? Pretty or Ugly, am I? Hot or Not?

Girls just old enough to know how to post to YouTube create video selfies posing that question. Often the responses are so downright cruel as to cause possibly permanent damage to a young girl’s budding identity.

As we get older, the question — so often asked, it’s become cliche — morphs into: Do you like my hair?

But deep down in the nether regions of our brains, so deep we’re not even consciously aware, those questions are ultimately just coded, sublimated, polite renditions of a much more basic, even base, question. And if you’re truly honest, you must acknowledge that it is the only relevant question. And that question is:

Do you find me fuckable…or not?

Just asking the question makes me feel flushed, wet, ready, and willing — but, most of all, wanting — to be made love to…ravished…and more….

Please follow the link to the annual Beauty of a Woman Blogfest, of which this blog post is a part! WOO HOO!

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #68? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

For our UK readers, we would like to make a special request that you take a moment and fill out thispetition to repeal the new censorship laws.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
Due to technical difficulties there is no Readers Choice selection this month

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #67? Start with the rules, come back February 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

For our UK readers, we would like to make a special request that you take a moment and fill out thispetition to repeal the new censorship laws.

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Orgasmic! That’s how I feel — absolutely, positively (dare I say “joyfully?) orgasmic! And that’s not just a figure of speech. Literally, I feel like I could climax at any moment, even though I’m sitting alone with my laptop at a very crowded café on the banks of the Limmat in downtown Zurich.

I can feel my cheeks blush. Underneath my layered look of oversized jacket, unbuttoned blouse, and camisole, I can sense my nipples stiffening against the fabric of my demi bra. My skinny jeans are tight against my crotch, and I feel the irresistible urge to pull them tighter, ever tighter.

Actually, it’s hard — extremely hard — to restrain my hands from reaching down beneath the table to touch myself between my spreading thighs as they hunger for something to wrap around and hump.

Can people notice? Is anybody watching? My eyes dance furtively around the room.

Let them watch, as I dare myself to leap up on top of the table, swirl my hands through my tossed-back hair, and scream ecstatically:

It is a dark and stormy night, just beginning to drizzle. The wipers smudge the dirt on my windshield, and the defroster isn’t working. My field of vision is so blurred it’s scary. Huge headlights suddenly appear in the rear-view mirror, right on my tail. Not used to an autobahn’s 100-kilometers-per-hour traffic flow, I’m no doubt going slower than I should.

Instinctively – though it is exactly the wrong thing to do – my foot touches the brakes. The tractor-trailer swerves to the left, then right, and begins to pass me. I’m so scared I’m mad: I switch my tiny VW’s overhead light so the trucker can see me flipping him an unladylike bird.

But now that I’m on my well-lighted stage, I don’t do that. Instead – I can’t tell you why – my hand that’s not on the steering wheel hikes up my skirt and runs its freshly manicured nails suggestively up the inside of my pantyhosed thighs. The trucker goes crazy, flashing his lights, honking his horn.

I respond, rubbing the hem of my silk-lined skirt sensuously against my hose. The skirt is pleated, beige, highlighting my smooth, black, luxurious legs. His lights blink faster; his horn, now in a seductive staccato. The rain’s dribble on the windshield turns to pre-cum, as my hand becomes his, lasciviously stroking the tightly woven fabric, black as the enveloping storm.

This flirtatious game goes on for kilometers. High up in his perch, he can see me, I can’t see him. The spotlight is on my legs, alone in the darkness, my hosiery and me. I slow down; he slows down; I speed up; he speeds up – always staying abreast of my window. He’s big, I’m small; he could squash me. He may have the horsepower, but I’m in charge. The power of pantyhose, whether sheer, silky, or textured. Yes, I think I’ll show him some more of my Wolford’s.